


You mustn't give your heart to a wild thing.

by lezzerlee



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Pacific Rim Fusion, Angst, Based on a Tumblr Post, Blow Jobs, Canonical Character Death, Crossover, Demon Stiles Stilinski, Demon!Stiles, Demonic Possession, Dubious Consent, Established Relationship, Fisting, Gen, M/M, Masturbation, Neckz 'n' Throats, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Rough Sex, Self Confidence Issues, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-08
Updated: 2014-07-02
Packaged: 2018-01-04 02:33:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 4,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1075504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lezzerlee/pseuds/lezzerlee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is going to be the spot for my Teen Wolf Tumblr Ficlets. Each story is a separate chapter and will contain pertinent warnings and descriptions. Most of them are just scenes and not a fully fleshed out story. If I ever do continue one, I'll post it as a full fic separately & link to it in the chapter it's posted in. Tags and rating are for all chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. There and Gone in a Second, Derek/Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> demon!Stiles. Stiles is possessed by a demon on starts pushing his and Derek's sexual relationship further. Derek knows something is wrong but can't figure it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://lezzerlee.tumblr.com/post/45257509328/i-kind-of-want-a-demon-stiles-story-where-the) (NSFW image).
> 
>  **Rated:** Explicit  
>  **Warnings:** dubcon (due to demonic possession), blow jobs, established relationship, underage sex, past sexual trauma, mentioned Kate Argent

Something is off, but Derek can’t pinpoint it.

He looks at Stiles sometimes, and the way he holds himself isn't right, or there's a far off look in his eyes. But as soon as Derek catches it, Stiles snaps back to his usual, rambling, hyperactive self.

They go about their business, fighting other creatures of the night, and making out in Stiles’ jeep or the back of Derek’s car in the meantime. And then Stiles starts pushing for more, and it’s new. They're in Derek's bed and Stiles has his hand down Derek's pants, long fingers wrapping around, cool against his overheated skin. And they’ve never gone this far before.

Derek had thought Stiles wanted to take it slow. The one normal thing he could give Stiles was letting him have his typical teenage indecision on how far to go and how soon. They both had to grow up too fast, and Derek doesn't want to take away Stiles' innocence like his was taken by Kate. Stiles always stopped when it got too heavy. He let Derek stop too. Relationships aren’t his strong suit and Derek didn't want to fuck this up.

But Stiles is insistent now, hot, wet mouth biting at his lips, fingernails pulling at the button of his jeans, little whimpers puffed out against his jawline. Derek doesn’t know what changed. Maybe they’ve finally saved each other enough. Maybe Stiles had been keeping count and Derek’s passed some sort of milestone. Still, it feels fast. Derek’s not saying he doesn’t want to; he would give Stiles anything he wanted. He wants this.

So he strips Stiles down carefully, slipping Stiles' big hands out of the sleeves of his hoodie, kissing the pad of Stiles' long fingers, and then running his hands under the hem of Stiles’ shirt. Stiles teases him for it, how slow he goes. There's an edge to it that Derek attributes to lust, but it makes his hackles rise. Stiles is mean, but he's not cruel. It must show on his face because Stiles quickly assures him that it’s okay and presses Derek’s hands to his hips harder to get Derek to grip them like he wants, but he doesn't egg Derek on anymore.

Derek gets on his knees to suck Stiles’ cock until it’s wet, and hard. Stiles' thighs strain under his fingertips and he traces the line of Stiles' tendon up to the join of his hip. His throat feels raw, swollen, because Stiles’ cock is bigger than Derek would have thought, but the noises Stiles makes is worth it.

When he looks up, Stiles’ eyes are so dark, almost completely black. It has to be his arousal, irises dilated and eyes hooded, but they are so black.  _So black_. It’s a little disturbing and Derek pulls away. His pulse is throbbing in his throat and he swallows back bitter spit.

There's a little moment of panic, a tiny scream in the back of his mind, but Stiles whines and Derek stands up to cover his unease. He looks down, see's the pale stretch of Stiles' body on the dark bed. Stiles looks relaxed, smiling as he bites his lip, and it's clear that he wants this, that Derek is the one holding back. He contemplates his pants, makes the decision to start undoing them. He wants this and he doesn’t know why he’s so apprehensive.

When he looks up, out of the corner of his eye he catches something wrong with Stiles face. It’s there and gone in a second, a flitter of  _something_ not right, a blur. But Stiles smells fine. He smells like himself, and sweat, and precome. He smells healthy, he smells like boy. He smells like home and safety and love.

Stiles reaches out and grabs Derek's wrist, pulling him between his knees. Derek bends down to kiss him, and that’s familiar. That feels warm and right. So Derek ignores his instincts, because they have to be wrong. They have to be left over fear from Kate, from losing anything that he cares about.

He lets Stiles pull him onto the bed.


	2. Pacific Wolf, Derek/Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crossover, Alternate Universe - Pacific Rim Fusion, jaeger pilots, canon character death, soul bond, angst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on [these photo manipulations](http://lezzerlee.tumblr.com/post/55496327202/gogettergirl-daunt-pacific-wolf-ahhhh-yes) by [froechled](http://froechled.tumblr.com/post/55431665597/pacific-wolf)
> 
>  **Rated:** Teen  
>  **Warnings:** Mentioned Canon Character Death

Derek’s always known he’d had a connection with Stiles, ever since the first day they'd met. It wouldn’t have seemed likely to the rest of the crew—except maybe Laura, who couldn’t help but know—with they way they always fought. They rubbed each other the wrong way, but their friction stoked a fire, their snide barbs and sarcasm fueling a slow, consuming burn. Whether that burn in Derek's chest was more than friendship, he'd never bothered to explore. Derek could die and any moment, and falling in love wasn't in anyone's best interest. It was just a distraction, a weakness.

Even so, they'd always seemed to gravitate to the same rooms, always seemed to move in sync, working together as Stiles helped design and repair the Jaegers’ control systems. Stiles could have been a pilot himself, but had failed out of the program because of his attention disorder. He was fast, and fit, and so smart: always thinking, planning, strategizing. He knew the machines inside and out, knew what it should have felt like when a Jaeger melded perfectly to the two pilots inside. Derek never had to tell Stiles twice about an interface glitch, or too much pull in the arm’s hydraulics. Stiles always made sure each problem was taken care of, if not improved upon. He trusted Stiles as much as he trusted his own sister.

And then Laura was taken from him.

He’d heard the stories about Marshall Becket, how he’d been connected to his brother when a Kaiju ripped him away. He couldn’t imagine what that would have been like, to lose someone in his mind, in _their_ mind, sharing a death, knowing what is was like to meet your end. Then he’d experienced it, the fear, the pain, the helpless darkness that spread throughout his mind in the span of seconds, like ink in water as she faded away.

He and Laura were recruited years after the Jaegers had been decommissioned, after the tunnel had been closed, no contact, no Kaiju and they’d finally given up patrols. He’d almost given up his dream of becoming a pilot, had settled for the Air Force instead, Laura already enlisted and flying patrols at the borders. And then then a new tunnel had opened up, another rift in the ocean floor. They scraped together the best teams they could find. They repurposed the old machines. They weren't as old as the Mach 3’s and 5’s of his childhood heroes, but advancements had been stopped, stalled by lack of funds, by lack of beasts to justify war machines.

The first Kaiju to emerge had been a Category Five. A Category Seven two years later took Laura from him. They only fought in teams, never solo. Scott and Allison had been tied up with the beast’s tail, and the claws had ripped through their hull, Derek trying desperately to hold it off, but it had been too late. He didn’t remember much of the rest of the fight. He remembered waking up in sick bay, exhausted and cold. And alone.

And then Becket had told him a story about a woman named Mako, about when he’d had to find a new co-pilot, and how it had helped him become whole again, helped him face his fears, accept his past. The world had needed him, and now the world needed Derek. The weight of it was too much, but Derek had to try. Laura would kill him if he didn’t. And he knew, he knew who his new co-pilot had to be.


	3. Make a Fist for Me. Derek/Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the ridiculous fisting jokes in Season 3. Stiles contemplates Derek's power. 
> 
> Fantasy, Fisting, masturbation, pain kink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Rated:** Mature  
>  **Warnings:** Fantasy about fisting
> 
> Originally posted [here.](http://lezzerlee.tumblr.com/post/52694612733/its-not-like-stiles-hasnt-thought-about-it)

It’s not like Stiles hasn’t thought about it before. But now, now he knows the power behind it, and it freaks him out a little. Rightly so, Derek could ruin him, and not in the good way, but in the organs shoved out his own throat way.

It’s not that he didn’t know Derek was strong, sure, he knows; he's seen it in action. But he's never _felt_ it. It's as if all the other times he personally came up against Derek’s physicality, Derek had been handling him with kid gloves. And that’s a sad state of affairs for Stiles' survival considering how long his head hurt after being slammed into his steering wheel, and the ache in his shoulders from being slammed against walls.

But he’s thinking about it now, like he’s thought about it many times before; Derek’s fingers inside of him. All of them. What it would feel like to take Derek right down to the knuckles, farther. He thinks about how Derek's claws could eviscerate him in a second. He thinks about how long he’d have to work at it before he could take the whole thing. Derek’s hands are big, manly in a way that Stiles envies when he thinks about his own hands, even though they aren’t particularly girly. They’re just not Derek’s.

Derek can punch through walls.

Stiles tries not to think about how his hands still hurts as he shoves two fingers up his own ass and jacks off with his face shoved into the pillows. He tries not to think about how much he likes the pain. 


	4. Derek/Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another ridiculous fisting fantasy piece because Season 3 was ridiculous. I mean, come on, who gave Stiles gloves?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Rated:** Mature  
>  **Warnings:** Fisting (Fantasy)
> 
> Originally posted [here.](http://lezzerlee.tumblr.com/post/52695451947/its-awkward-and-horrible-and-just-so-fucking)

It’s awkward, and horrible, and just  _so fucking Stiles_ , that Derek has to take a second to not laugh out loud. Then he has to take another second to calm his heartbeat so that the other two werewolves in the room don’t notice that it’s sped up. 

Stiles is oblivious—absolutely fucking oblivious—as he wiggles his fingers around, making the latex squeak against itself from lack of lubrication. And Lubrication is not what Derek needs to be thinking about, not while he’s bent over like this, hands on the side of the bath with Stiles to his back. 

He should move. He feels vulnerable and open, but it would be too obvious. Everyone is staring at Stiles now, his hand in the air and a glove up to his elbow; his slim, long fingers curled into a fist. 

Derek thinks about what those fingers would feel like inside of him, the way they would just barely hit that perfect spot. He thinks about the way Stiles’ whole hand would feel better, large and solid and perfect, knuckles massaging his prostate with a twist of a wrist.

He’d make Stiles do it with minimal preparation. It’s not like he wouldn’t heal if anything went wrong. But he would want to feel tight, feel the way Stiles’ wrist moved when he contracted around it. He thinks of the way he’d catch on the bone of Stiles’ thumb, every time Stiles would try to pull out.

And his heart-rate is picking up again, his claws itching under his skin, threatening to grow. He chances a glance at Stiles and catches the red flush of embarrassment on his cheeks as he strips off the glove.

Derek’s happy to get his hands in the ice bath, and to focus on something else.


	5. Used, Deucalion/Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles likes it rough. [ Based on this NSFW gif.](http://lezzerlee.tumblr.com/post/50070584739/the-thing-is-stiles-likes-it-rough-he-likes-it)
> 
> This was written post season 2, but pre-season 3.  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Rated:** Mature  
>  **Warnings:** Rough sex, asphyxiation, self esteem issues

The thing is, Stiles likes it rough. He likes it when his muscles ache, and his cock grinds into the sheets so much that it burns. He likes that his mind shuts down, the butterfly wings of this thoughts torn off, dust falling away until he’s blissfully paralyzed. He focuses on just trying to breathe through the fingers over his nose and mouth, suffocating.

He likes that Deucalion doesn’t let him scream, just takes what he wants— as much as he wants, as often as he wants—and doesn’t let Stiles go. Sometimes Stiles fights it, but more often than not he relaxes into Deucalion’s tight embrace, the tips of claws flush to his cheek, and just lets him pound inside. It makes him feel desirable, the way Deucalion wants to use him. He knows what it's liked to be used. At least Deucalion wants him as more than a glorified encyclopedia—a research assistant who gets left behind.

Deucalion doesn’t give a shit about him as a person, but hey, no one else does either. Maybe Scott did once, but he’s too busy now, too distracted with Allison, and fighting Alphas. And Stiles was ready to fight, until he wasn’t. It’s so much easier to give in.


	6. Contract, Gen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This just popped into my head for some reason. Based on [Helenish](http://helenish.tumblr.com/tagged/NECKZ-%27n-THROATS) & [Nrem’s](http://nightrevelations.tumblr.com/tagged/NECKZ%20N%20THROATZ) Neckz ‘n Throatz ficlets. Originally posted [here.](http://lezzerlee.tumblr.com/post/46739971616/this-just-popped-into-my-head-for-some-reason)
> 
> Stiles contemplates working for another Magazine.  
> Neckz 'N Throatz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Rated:** Teen  
>  **Warnings:** Minor self esteem issues

Stiles stared at the contract on the table, his toes fidgeting underneath, tapping out an endless rhythm as he scanned the text. They’d put him in the common area, just cheap tables and even cheaper chairs clustered around them. There was a fridge, a water cooler and a bar of clean glasses along one wall. Stiles could hear the high pitched zing-snap of on of a fluorescent light flickering in the corner. He hadn’t even seen the rest of the facilities yet, but he knew this was going to be a bad idea. Hyoid was smaller magazine with very little pull in the market, and it showed in every penny not spent on interior decorating.

The name of the magazine itself put Stiles off, emphasizing the deepest part of the throat, the place where you had to dig in to get to, then nearly kill to damage. There were levels to these magazines, like the Playboy versus Penthouse thing. He knew the mag was a little out of his comfort zone, a little too focused on the violent imagery, of the wolf giving into carnal blood lust over a little indulgence in eroticism.

But Brett and Marcus had been pressuring him to do more anyway. Stiles wanted to see what else was out there. He’d had enough werewolves in his life trying to order him around. It hadn’t seemed like a bad idea until he was stepping through office’s the door, greeted by an over-eager producer. 

"I’m a big fan of your work," had been the first thing out of Yuri’s mouth. He was small for a wolf, deceivingly so, but Stiles saw the truth of his nature in the way he moved, in the way he subtly smelled the air as he greeted Stiles.

"Thanks," Stiles said, a little uncomfortable. 

"We’d love for you to work with us," Yuri replied as he lead Stiles to his seat. "I can’t say enough, a model of your status could really do wonders for our magazine, and we’d be willing to give you a lot of creative control in your shoots if you work for us."

Stiles had just nodded and sat down.  He didn’t really believe that he was that big of an asset, but the promise of having some control over his image had been appealing. That was why he was here in the first place.

"I’m going to check in on a shoot, but let me leave this with you to read over, and we can talk about it when I get back."

The contract was everything he wanted, and a better hourly wage for his work than he’d been expecting. They weren’t even asking him to be exclusive to the magazine, and that had been the one thing he’d had to fight for with his contract at Neckz ‘n Throatz.

But he couldn’t imagine working here. He’d never imagined that he’d be working in this business anyway. Hell he’d only  _known_  about the business for a short while. It was disheartening to think that Neckz ‘n Throatz was the ideal, and that Stiles was lucky to have landed there in the first place.

 _Lucky,_  he thought, bitterly. But he did have school to pay off, and every penny that his father didn’t have to help pay for, that he didn’t owe in loan debt was worth it. And he’d never been innocent, and especially not after the Alpha pack. People do what they have to to get by. 

But then he thought of the look that Scott had given him, about what Derek had said to him when he’d found out. He realized that maybe, even if Derek was a hypocrite, he had thought that Stiles was better than that. Stiles knew that he wasn’t, but he was better than _this_.

He didn’t wait for Yuri to come back. He simply scrawled and apology on the back of the papers and left. He wondered why his fingers itched to call Derek on the bus ride home. It would have been better if he hadn’t had to sell the Jeep for school money,. He could ignore his thoughts by paying attention to the road, or drumming his hands along to music. He shoved his hands into his pockets and leaned against the window instead, staring at the brick buildings as they passed by.


	7. Before the Kick, Gen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little Inception dialogue crossover as a prompt I received from Torra-K. Originally posted [here.](http://lezzerlee.tumblr.com/post/33222795017/omg-let-me-love-you-torra-that-is-an-awesome)
> 
> The pack lays a trap for the Alpha pack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Rated:** Gen  
>  **Warnings:** Mention of canon-typical violence

Derek skidded to a halt, leaves crumbling to dust beneath his feet. He wasn’t running at full speed, wasn’t evening running at half, but he was outpacing Stiles. The Alpha pack was not far behind them, but that was the point. They were exactly where they needed to be, exactly where Lydia had mapped.

“You ready for this?” Derek asked as Stiles loped up behind him. Stiles was a wash of color, the afternoon sun glinting through the trees and setting Stiles’ honeyed brown eyes alight. His cheeks were flushed even more red than usual and Derek could hear the steady thrum of Stiles’ quickened pulse.

“Yeah,” Stiles said with false bravado. “Yeah sure,” he corrected, a more tentative tone tinting his voice.

“They’ll run you down hard, Stiles,” Derek said, swallowing over the lump in his throat as he thought about the blood and the bone how Stiles wouldn’t heal if the Alpha pack caught him.

"And I shall lead them on a merry chase. It shouldn’t be too hard; I’ll just need to throw a stick and shout ‘fetch’ really loud."

Derek scowled at the sarcasm, ready to berate Stiles for taking the situation to lightly. And he was slightly miffed, because werewolves were not actually dogs. Then his ears perked up as he caught the sound of the approaching pack. His whole body went rigid in anticipation of a fight. 

“Hey,” Stiles said softly. “Stick to the plan. Don’t go all self sacrificing on us, okay? This can work, and you need to let it.”

“Go,” Derek urged without acknowledging the comment. Stiles chewed on his lip, clearly wanting to say more. “Go, Stiles,” Derek said more firmly.

“You’re supposed to say be back before the kick,” Stiles called over his shoulder as he took off on a run, starting a meandering path towards the house. Derek could hear the thud of his shoes on the ground, the pull of air into his lungs and his raspy exhale. He knew the Alpha pack could hear it too. 

Please, Derek pleaded silently. They had a plan, a trap. Isaac, Jackson, and Scott were waiting for Stiles to lead the Alpha pack in. Derek was going to close the circle behind them. He could only hope that Stiles was fast enough, that the Betas were ready, that Lydia and the Allison’s homemade weapons would take the wolves down.

“Just be back before the kick,” Derek said to himself, as he waited.


	8. Young and Tragic, Derek/Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles finds Derek in a small Mendocino beach house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by this [photo](http://lezzerlee.tumblr.com/image/85569984051)  
> [rebloggable on Tumblr](http://lezzerlee.tumblr.com/post/85569984051/theres-a-surfboard-propped-against-the-outside)
> 
>  **Rated:** Teen  
>  **Warnings:** non-explicit major character death, angst

There's a surfboard propped against the outside wall, leash half buried in the sand, a few cracks spiderwebbed along the edges of the fiberglass coating. Tufts of brush and beach weed sprout under the shade of the house—shack, more like it, one of the last, rustic vestiges of coastal property not owned by millionaires and hotel chains. Stiles briefly grimaces at the lack of care for the equipment before banging on the door. He doesn't care how loud it sounds, abrasive against the tranquil quiet of the beach. Werewolves always know you're coming anyway.

It took nearly a year to track Derek down. It seems absurd with how close Derek stayed to Beacon Hills, but Stiles had started hunting on the opposite side of the country, convinced Derek would retreat to the northeastern forests, far away from their personal hell. He’d mentioned New York before.

“California is home,” Derek says, later, scratching forlornly at his beard, staring at the glass of ice water on the table, bare bulb casting deep shadows beneath his eyes as they sit on the battered couch. Stiles fidgets, wishing for beer, with his own glass in hand, condensation catching on his fingertips.

“How do you…” Stiles starts, before his voice shatters in his throat, choking glass shards of grief ripping through him. He turns his head away, catches the moon framed in the small window, its silver light reflecting off the water. Chewing on his lip, he closes his eyes to keep from speaking.

He wants to ask if it ever gets better, but he knows. After his mom died, he and his dad could barely speak about her, even years after the fact. Stiles knows what it’s like to lose someone, the void they leave behind. He’d wondered if it was different losing more, losing everyone.

He knows now.

Derek takes the glass from his hand, takes his own from the table and moves to the kitchen. Stiles hears Derek set them in the sink. He stares at the moon until Derek walks back in. He has a blanket and an extra pillow and Stiles says nothing as he takes them.

“I work early,” Derek says before he turns towards the single room. In the darkness, Stiles stares at the ceiling for far too long, listening to the waves crash upon the beach. He wakes to blinding sun, face half buried in the rough fabric of the couch, to the smell of saltwater and coffee. It’s burnt, having sat the heating element for hours. There’s no sugar or cream that he can find, so he chokes down a few gulps just to stave off the caffeine headache before dumping the rest down the sink.

The sun is still low and Stiles hunts around for an outlet to charge his dead phone. It’s only nine when the screen lights up again. He thinks about listening to the messages again, for the hundredth—thousandth?—time, thumb hovering over the green icon before he sets the phone back down. He can’t bring himself to delete them, not after their lines were disconnected and he couldn’t reach their voicemails anymore.

Derek doesn’t come back until until nine-thirty. Stiles snoops around as much is possible without going into Derek’s room, knowing Derek would smell if he crossed the threshold, but also because he’s learned boundaries, if only just a little over the years.

Stiles is sitting in the shade, feet buried in the cold sand when Derek returns. He’s in a green tank top, skin sunkissed, hair ruffling in the breeze. His eyes look crystal blue against the backdrop of yellow sand.

“You know, right? You know they’re dead?”

Derek looks out towards the water, eyebrows drawn and arm crossed over his chest. He looks smaller now, somehow, even as Stiles looks up at him. Stiles doesn’t ask what happened to Cora. He knows what happened to Peter. They’re all alone, the both of them.

“I don’t know why I’m here,” Stiles says.

Derek looks down at him. “Yes you do,” he says.

Stiles lets Derek strip off his shirt that night, lets Derek bury his face into his neck, beard rough against his skin. It feels familiar for how they never did this before, how they danced around their attraction, something more important always getting in the way.

Tears leak from Stiles eyes, but Derek doesn’t stop. He doesn’t tell him it’s going to be okay. Stiles doesn’t want him to. He takes Stiles apart and doesn’t try to put him back together. Stiles tries to get lost in the press of Derek’s fingers, in the drag of his teeth, but he can’t quite shut it out—everything about the last few years of his life.

“It’s better to be alone, right?” He whispers as they walk along the beach. The sand squishes between Stiles’ toes, wetter and wetter as the tide comes in. “You can’t lose anyone if you don’t have anyone.”

“You can always lose,” Derek replies.

“So why are you here?” Stiles asks.

Derek stops, Stiles taking a few steps before he notices and turns back. Derek’s head is ducked. His body looks like it’s collapsing in on itself, sagging and miserable.

“I didn’t want to make the same mistakes,” he says, looking up through his lashes. His eyes flash red.

“You were… you were still pack,” Stiles whispers. His dinner lurches into his throat. A choked-off bark of a laugh erupts from his throat. “It never ends,” he says as he turns away.

He walks towards the outcrop of rocks at the end of the beach. Derek doesn’t follow.

The next morning when he drags himself back in, eyes bleary and red, face chapped  from wind and tears, Derek hands him a cup of coffee. It’s fresh and Stiles drinks it too quickly.

“I’ll help you kill them,” Derek says. Stiles shakes his head.

“You don’t want to make the same mistakes,” he parrots back, though his voice lacks any real bitterness.

“Revenge was never my mistake,” Derek says. “That was Peter’s.”

“And look how that turned out.” Stiles flops down onto the couch. “Do you want to rebuild?” he asks.

Derek’s brows furrow, face drawn as he thinks. “No,” he says.

Stiles nods, dropping his eyes to the table, taking in the scratches and coffee rings marring the surface.

His fingers trace over his heart, as if he can touch the darkness of the Nemeton there. He wonders if he would have sacrificed his father back then, knowing what he knows now, losing him anyway. Derek leans down and twines his fingers with Stiles’. Stiles wonders if Derek will hate him in the morning, when he comes back from work and Stiles is gone. He thinks Derek would understand.

“They will never come back. It won’t ever go away,” Derek says. Stiles sobs, not realizing he was crying already. “I’ll be here if you need me, but you’re welcome to stay.”

Stiles nods, grateful. The first time he’s felt grateful for anything in a long while.


	9. Flirt, Derek/Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You really think I can’t flirt?” Stiles asks, offended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little something that popped into my head [looking at gifs](http://lezzerlee.tumblr.com/post/89507757301/you-really-think-i-cant-flirt-stiles-asks) from one of Dylan's interviews.
> 
>  **Rated:** Gen

"You really think I can’t flirt?” Stiles asks, offended. His shoulders press up comically high, right to his ears, as he throws his hands out to his sides in exasperation. Derek raises one eyebrow, takes in the teen who hasn’t learned to control his limbs yet, thinks about the way he trips out of his Jeep, and how he almost collides with anyone he’s near, like a comet pulled in by planetary gravity. 

"I  _know_  you can’t,” Derek says. 

The sun cuts across Stiles’ body, the awning shading only their heads. It’s warm, but not too hot, still spring but edging towards summer. The circles underneath Stiles’ eyes have gone, the last remnants of the Nogitsune finally fading away. 

Derek had smiled at something Stiles had said, and Stiles had called him on it. “Is that your real smile?!” he’d exclaimed, lip curled in mock horror. “I had no idea you could look so  _normal_. I thought you always looked like a serial killer.”

“I do not look like a serial killer,” Derek had said.

“Dude,” Stiles scoffed. “I’ve seen you smile exactly once, when you flirted our way into the police station. It looked like you were in pain… or ready to kill someone.” He’d shrugged and and sat back in his chair. Derek watched as Stiles’ clasped his fingers over his stomach.

“Not that you could have done any better,” Derek replied.

“Jackie has known me since I was ten. There is no way  _me_  flirting with her would have worked. I could do it, though.”

“Sure,” Derek had said flatly.

“I can prove it,” Stiles says now. His eyes gleam with mirth. 

“Sure,” he says again, rolling his eyes.

Stiles sits up, shoulders cocked at an angle, chin down. The hollows of his clavicle peek out from the collar of his dark shirt. He’s taken to wearing blacks, lately. Derek misses the plaid. When Stiles moves forward, Derek’s breath catches in his throat. His movements are cat-like, calculated, crowding in Derek’s space, but delicately. 

Stiles blinks, eyes sweeping down, eyelashes fanned across pale and delicate skin. Derek stares at his lips, at the way his mouth never closes, and how his lower lip looks fuller from this angle, pink and healthy again.

Derek’s never seen Stiles’ movements so controlled, not since the Nogitsune was using his body. Derek shivers at the thought. But this Stiles isn’t still, not the way the Nogitsune was. No, he’s just purposeful with his movements. He blinks up again, cheeks flushed, eyebrows slightly drawn and serious. 

“Would you like to get coffee sometime?” he asks. His voice is whisper soft, but deep and rich. It goes straight to Derek’s gut, a knot pulling tight inside him. Because he does, he really does.

Stiles’ face splits into a wide grin, eyes glittering and he barks out a jarringly loud laugh. “Told you,” he says, then sits back in his chair again. Derek looks out across the lawn, not saying anything.

“Do you, though?” Stiles asks. Derek’s brows furrow in confusion. “Do you want to get coffee sometime,” Stiles clarifies.

Derek’s eyes snap back. Stiles looks awkward again, nervous, himself. 

“Sure,” Derek says, for the third time. Stiles smiles.


End file.
